


Kingsblood

by Expectosplendiferous



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mentions of Underage, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sex Work, So many OCs, so many HCs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:34:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22780306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Expectosplendiferous/pseuds/Expectosplendiferous
Summary: It all came back to Kingsblood, which was a fact of Ozma’s life. Kingsblood was the answer to every why that might have plagued him, if he opened the door to such questions.Why?Well, because Kingsblood.
Relationships: OC/OC, Ozma & OC, Ozma/OC
Kudos: 5





	Kingsblood

Ozma's birthday began the way it had every other year. He was facedown on the street, he was almost positive that his nose was broken ( _again_ ), and he could feel his magic buzzing relentlessly just under his skin like a swarm of hornets. Aggravation was gnawing at his stomach, just like it always did on the summer solstice, and it was easier to stay down than to push himself back up. It was safer for everyone. 

_Stay down, keep your head low, ride it out._

Words to live by. Words he _had_ lived by for as long as he could remember, because the alternative wasn't something Ozma liked to think about, not that it was easy to escape the daily reminders. 

Case and point, a heel dug into his kidney, and he shirked away with a shout, curling a bit tighter. His nose was already busted, but that didn't mean he couldn't protect his face anyway. For the rest of the year, Ozma trusted - if he could call it that - that the gang of street children he'd grown up alongside (he supposed they were just _street thugs_ now. Artemis was older than him. He had to be twenty) would have some fun at his expense and then leave him be. 

The solstice made it less predictable, with energies being high all across the city and magic practically crackling in the air. Accidents always fell on the summer solstice, just like there was always a certain lull during the winter one. They were liable to kill him on the solstice, and Ozma was just as liable to kill them _back_ unless he got a handle on his magic as it screamed through his veins. 

Usually, magic was second nature to Ozma. Easy to control, and usually well at hand. Safe. Magic _sang_ to Oz, most days. It made it easy to sleep, and it woke him up with the sun. It wrapped him in a warm, thick cloak of safety, even if he wasn't allowed to use it freely, and it sang all the while in his blood. 

The solstice was something else, and it was the only day of the year when Ozma wasn't sure how good his grip _really_ was on the power coursing through him. Singing became screaming, and sometimes he wanted to scream along with it. He had done just that as a child. He remembered it, but not very well. Only lying on a mat in a dark room and screaming his heart out because he didn't know how else to manage the rocking, pulsating waves of magic that wanted to seep out of his body through every orifice. Ozma was glad he couldn't remember it well. He didn't _want_ to remember, and the aunties were happy to leave the subject untouched. 

"Get up, whoreson." Ozma tuned back into his present situation just in time to catch another heel to his back, and he flinched into a tighter ball, wrestling his magic down deeper. He could smell the sweat rolling off Artemis. The summer had been hot as sin, and Ozma supposed there wasn't much shelter on the street. No baths either. "Get up!" Two more rough kicks. Ozma wondered if this was the day when Artemis or one of the others would snap and kill him. He wondered if his magic would _allow_ that. 

Well, his magic didn't seem to mind that he was going to piss blood for a week. Ozma wasn't sure he'd bet on it caring if he rolled over and died. "Artemis, just-- _fucker_!" Ozma dropped back into a ball with a ragged cry as fast as he had tried to find his feet, hands clasped over his face as a fresh gout of blood poured out of his nose and mouth. He felt his teeth anxiously. 

Loose, but still in place. He could heal from that. 

"Brothers alive, _again_ ? Go! _Go_ , I said! Unless you _want_ to fight with the city watch on a solstice! I said _go_ , Artemis!" Through slitted eyes, Ozma recognized Annaliese immediately. She was tall enough to block part of the morning sun, and her distinctive magic hummed around her fingertips. It was a dark, royal sort of purple that Ozma had always admired, and it felt like cold electricity whenever he touched it. 

She came closer and he could make out her expression. It was too early for her to wear anything on her face, so her skin was shiny with the day's humidity, and even darker than usual with a heavy flush of anger. Her black eyes were flashing, and Ozma had seen _that_ expression enough to scoff silently under his breath as Artemis and the others took a few steps back. 

"You're just a whore. You know that, right? What makes you think the Watch would come for a whore?" Ozma didn't look at Artemis, but he could imagine the way his anger probably wrinkled his hare lip. He was probably turning red too, which would look stupid against the ginger mop he called hair. 

Annaliese didn't address Ozma, but that was her way. He wasn't shocked or offended. Instead she stood in front of him and pointed at Artemis with a dazzlingly white smile. "I'm just a whore's _daughter_ . Get it right. And he's got Kingsblood. You know the Watch isn't going to sit around while you kick a nest of wasps that could level the fucking district. _Dipshit_ ." Ozma couldn't help the faint flinch that came over him as she brought up Kingsblood so bluntly. Most people tried not to address it where he could hear, which was just as bad - _worse_ , actually. Annaliese used it as a weapon where she would, and as a shield just as easily. In ten years, Ozma had just gotten used to it.

What mattered most was the effect Kingsblood had on people when someone came right out and said it. He could already hear Artemis and his gang moving away, exiting the alley through the other side and turning left towards the center city. Groaning, Ozma relaxed at last and rolled onto his back, whining as his bruised body shifted. "Hi."

Sometimes Annaliese could be nice, but today wasn't one of those occasions. Not surprising, with the solstice, and Ozma wasn't surprised when her strong hand curled around his bicep and she yanked him upward. "Fucking _idiot_ ! You could have scared them away yourself with a little light show. Why are you always such a _fucking_ pushover, Oz?" She paused in her tirade to squint down at him. "Your fucking _face_! Brothers, come on. Mama isn't at work yet. She can sort it so you don't have to walk around like that for a week." Ozma staggered on his feet as she began hauling him along, and he moaned under his breath.

"Anna, not your _mother_ …" Frigga was a huge, powerful woman, and she had never made any secret of how she felt about Ozma. For as long as he could remember, Frigga had been making his life a living _hell_. She tolerated him out of the goodness of her heart (according to her), but she treated him as a glorified servant at the best of times, and as a whipping boy for Annaliese at worst. Annaliese, in turn, seemed able to turn a blind eye to anything her mother did, and Ozma wasn't surprised by her scathing look over her shoulder. He limped after her as fast as he could after gathering what he could of the groceries he’d been carrying, and when they reached the street, he tried not to flinch in the full light of the sun.

The city was alive, even with the sun just a few hands above the horizon, and the street was teeming with carriages and wagons loaded down with goods destined for the center city, where the Grand Market was already well underway for the day. It was always like that during the summer months. By noon, it was too abysmally hot to do hard labor, so the people of the great city state of Viritus had long since learned to adapt to very early mornings and very late nights. Even in the depths of winter, Viritus was rarely less than pleasantly cool. Ozma had heard of places in the world where rain turned into ice in the air, but he didn’t know if he believed that. It seemed preposterous, when his life up until now had been in this one, great city where even rain was something of an oddity.

There was a faint clamor when they emerged from the alley into the street, walking with the reckless abandon of two children who had been raised within these few short miles around the _Red Lady_ . They gave the wagon traffic little attention, even as horses whickered and tradesmen swore after them. It was nothing more than the background noises of the city. It was comforting for Ozma. Just as natural as having no shoes or a torn shirt. He didn’t feel sorry for himself, because this, _all_ of this, had become the sum of his parts. This was simply his _life_.

Annaliese tossed her head as they walked, and the sun's rays caught on the tight, close curls of her hair. Even under direct light, her hair seemed to simply absorb the sun and store it somewhere for later. "If you want to be _stupid,_ that's fine. But Mama is the best healer in the house. You know that. So _don't_ be stupid." Her tone started frosty, but it softened eventually, and Annaliese regarded Ozma with some rare sympathy. "She's mellow today, and she's the one who sent you on errands _knowing_ it was solstice…" Her lips curled into an impish smile. "Also, I heard Rea came home while you were out." 

Immediately, Ozma perked up, eyes wide and interested. His split lips spread in a grin, leaking even more blood onto the front of his shirt. "Really?" He clasped his hands restlessly against the fabric of his shirt, churning it in his grip with excitement. " _Really_ really? She was supposed to be away for _months_." 

Annaliese gave a haughty shrug. Frigga and Rea had been fierce rivals for many years, though that seemed to have abated in recent times. Age had a way of settling things in the _Red Lady_ , and the younger generation usually picked up where their elders left off. Speaking of which… "Did Frigga set a date for you yet?" Ozma's voice was muffled between swelling and blood, but Annaliese heard him well enough. She regarded him, and then her expression split in a beaming, beautiful smile that might have made him weak at the knees had he not come to expect it. "She did. She has it arranged already for the end of fall. I'll be eighteen, and the client is of royal lineage! He’s a northerner." 

"Are you excited?"

She shot him a _look_ . " _Yes_ , Oz. Don't be jealous. It makes you ugly. You know why you're not _allowed_ , and it's completely reasona--" 

He grimaced. "I _know,_ Anna. It's been ages since I was jealous about it." That wasn't entirely true. He felt envious whenever the other "youngsters" of the _Red Lady_ talked about finally moving beyond the triviality of chores and errands. Brothel work wasn't necessarily the finest work, but it was intensely proud in its own way, and the _Red Lady_ was no backwater, slummy pit of disease. Everyone had good pay, good care, and good clients. It wasn't uncommon for the upper class to frequent the house.

A whore was a whore, but there was a certain dignity and pride to it. At least, there was at the _Red Lady._ They prided themselves on being more than a mere brothel, and Ozma supposed they had done a fine job of that, though he didn’t have much experience with other houses to compare it to. There were a few friendly rivalries around the district, and a few less-than-friendly ones, but Ozma didn’t get to see inside any house besides the _Red Lady_. It wasn’t his place. Just like it had never been his place to attend the local schoolhouse, as much as he had always dreamt of it.

Annaliese had been good to him in that regard. She, being Frigga’s only child and destined for a life in the business, had been attending school for as long as Ozma had known her. She was expected to receive only the finest scores, and Annaliese had never disappointed, and whenever her mother wasn’t watching, she passed her books and work along to Ozma.

He didn’t claim to be a genius, or even to be very smart. He struggled especially with reading at a high level, because Annaliese had long since grown too busy to waste her time sitting around helping him decipher foreign words, but he got by, and Ozma _liked_ being able to learn. He was fascinated by history, and by law, and Annaliese’s etiquette lessons were a delight to him and had saved him from having his ears clapped dozens of times over the last ten years. Admittedly, Oz knew his etiquette was a bit odd, having only learned the feminine side of it, but he wasn’t the only boy in the house who did that. It was more common than not.

The only thing Ozma hadn’t learned in all those years of sneaking Annaliese’s books was _magic_ . Those lessons were glaringly absent, even though he had seen her practicing privately in her room, and he had overheard her discussing her classes with some of the aunties. Ozma had never asked about it, but eventually, when he was seven, Annaliese had told him anyway. While they had been sitting together outside on the curb of the street, watching wagons and eating grapes, she said, abruptly and without warning: “Mama and Auntie Rea told me I could show you all my books, as long as I didn’t show you any lessons about magic. Because of Kingsblood, I guess. I wasn’t supposed to tell you, because you’d-- _see_ ? You’re already _crying_!” And then she held him for half an hour until he stopped sobbing and they could finish their grapes.

That was Annaliese in a nutshell. She was kind in her own way, but she had a natural capacity for cruelty that Ozma lacked. She was a slave to her own emotions, and she had a way of taking them out on whoever was around, or whoever was weakest. That usually just so happened to be Ozma, but he had thick skin where Annaliese was involved. He found it easy, nowadays, to overlook her words, or else to read into them and realize what she _meant_ , which usually wasn’t at all what she _said_.

As they approached the front door of the _Red Lady_ , Ozma reflected that he loved Annaliese. He always had. Not… he didn’t want to marry her - Oz knew he would never marry anyone - but he counted her as a sister more than just a friend. He didn’t think she shared that sentiment, but that was fine. He didn’t need her to love him back.

Casting her one last glance while she was looking the other way, he pushed open the deep, rich red door, and gladly stepped into the chaos of the house. 

Unlike most brothels, the _Red Lady_ didn’t strictly operate by night. Many of them performed as escorts for any number of functions or purposes, including daytime visits. Ozma was privy to the books, so he knew just how many clients paid huge sums just for the sake of pretty, clever company of either sex. Many would request an escort for their adult children who weren’t attached already, for family functions, and there was little shyness about such things. Not when dealing with a house as esteemed as the _Red Lady_. They offered far more than just sex, and that was well known throughout Viritus.

Personally, Ozma thought sex was probably the most _boring_ thing that happened around the house. It was also the most _common_ thing they all did, no matter how many escorts were requested, but he thought it was a waste of good money. Every time he watched Horus, the house manager, counting coins, Ozma puzzled on what it must be like to be able to waste that much money on some good _sex_ instead of buying something useful, like shoes or bread.

“Gods, _already_? It’s not even nine!” 

Right on cue. Ozma flashed Horus a bloody, bruised smile. He loved the old man too, even if he was crotchety and tried not to let his age show. He wasn’t wearing his ugly hairpiece yet, so Oz could see his sparse, silver-white hair. He noticed a few liver spots he hadn’t seen before, and he felt a touch of sadness that Horus really _was_ becoming the old man Ozma had always teased him about being. “Good morning, Horus. Happy Solstice.” 

He gave an explosive scoff. “ _Fuck_ the solstice. Never worth the trouble and it just costs us a day of lost fucking work, doesn’t it? No fucking point opening, when it just ends with half the house on fucking fire and half the whores out on injuries. What happened, then? Gods be good, look at your _face_ !” He reached out and manhandled Ozma before he could resist. Horus had a way of making anyone feel a bit like a horse being examined at auction, but Ozma was used to it, and knew well enough to stay still while the old man did his poking and prodding. Horus meant well. He would have sent for help if he thought Ozma needed it, but he seemed satisfied with what he saw, and he took a step back and wiped his hands in his pants. He looked over Ozma’s head at Annaliese. “Frigga can sort that well enough. Don’t let him slip away. I’ll have a word with the council about that fucking gang this time - don’t you say a _fucking_ word.” He pointed at Oz ominously. “They’re getting stupid and fucking bold now. Before long they’ll be going after whoever leaves. Not just you. Now get out of my way, we’ve got bigger things to worry about right now.” 

Ozma didn’t react outwardly, but he felt a stab of hurt at, as usual, being the _just_ of a situation. He was _just_ Ozma. Horus didn’t care, necessarily, about Oz being attacked. He worried about a pack of fools who were brave enough to attack anyone with Kingsblood. Ozma understood, but it still left a sting as Horus wandered away muttering under his breath.

The hustle and bustle of the house was subdued as they went further in. The _Red Lady_ was a monstrous building full of gilt decor and thick wall hangings of the deepest, richest reds. Patrons were frequently surprised not only by the size of the labyrinthine brothel, but by how regal most of the design was. None of it looked old or tacky. The _Red Lady_ shone inside and out, and it was a source of intense pride among them all, Ozma included. He liked the opulence of it because he knew how much work went into every aspect of it. There were no maids or slaves. This was their own hard work come to life around them. It was the only kind of finery he had any stomach for.

He climbed the stairs with Annaliese at his tail. The air felt thick and hot the further up they went, but Ozma knew that the rooms would all be pleasant cool, even in the wickedest grips of summer. Frigga was not only a beautiful woman, but powerful as well. She had control over ice that Ozma found intensely admirable… it almost made up for everything else about her. 

“It’s quiet, isn’t it?” Annaliese whispered behind him as they ascended, and Ozma made a noise of agreeance. Normally, even in the morning, there would be people coming and going from the sleeping quarters in small droves. There were still a few popping in and out of rooms as they climbed higher into the _Red Lady_ , but most of them were their age or younger. The children. 

The top floor answered their unspoken question as Ozma staggered to an abrupt halt on the stairs, reaching out to catch Annaliese by the shoulder as she pinwheeled behind him. She started in to yell at him for stopping, and Ozma responded by shaking her shoulder _hard_ and taking half a step to the side, revealing the halls surrounding the finest quarters were teeming with men and women in all states of undress. There was an undercurrent of tension among them that could be cut with a knife, but Ozma couldn’t help but feel it had nothing to do with Solstice.

Picking his way through the crowd, he didn’t stop to talk to anyone, though he could hear Annaliese behind him asking hushed questions. The bodies parted before him instinctively, drawing away from the staticky, swarm-of-wasps sensation of his magic, and for once Ozma wasn’t frustrated by the response. He took advantage of it and plunged through every gap his magic created for him until he finally came to the door he was looking for. It was shut, and the restless crowd had gathered around it, but no one spoke as Ozma set his hand against the handle and turned it, breaking the magic lock without conscious thought.

Shoving open the door, Ozma’s first thought rushed through his lips: “Thank the gods you’re all right.”

Rea was not a woman anyone could miss in a room. She was not especially tall, but she had skin like milk and hair like fire, which was an oddity in Viritus. She held her age with remarkable grace that Ozma had come to admire fiercely, and her eyes were the most splendid, perfect shade of green he had ever seen in his life. If someone had asked Ozma from the age of five onward, what his idea of perfection was, he would have said Mother Rea without a moment’s hesitation.

She looked harried but unhurt, at a single glance. Her sheer green gown was slightly asunder, and some of the golden stitching seemed to be coming loose, but that was no worse than Ozma had seen her after a busy night. His eyes immediately shot to Frigga, who was clutching Rea’s hand in her own. He could smell-sense the fading swell of magic in the room, and his gaze returned to Rea with uncertainty and fear. 

Ozma didn’t notice the watchmen until one gave a bugle of annoyance and he flinched immediately to the side. Without a moment’s delay, he skittered across the room before he could be grabbed and thrown out, and slid onto his knees beside Rea, falling gratefully into her waiting arms. She felt tired as soon as Ozma had hands on her, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Pressing his head against her clavicle, he allowed a steady, gentle stream of his magic to flow into her, replacing what had somehow been lost.

“Sweet boy.” She pressed three kisses against his cheek as the watchmen took up their argument with Annaliese at the open door. Ozma didn’t pay it any mind, focused only on Rea as she leaned back and gave him a critical look. “You’ve been fighting _again_ ? _Ozma_ .” Her scolding tone cut him deeper than anyone’s words thus far, but he recognized the sly smile on the edge of her lips, so he grinned guiltily back. “Look at you. Oh, _Frigga_ , look at him.” 

Frigga did look at him, and her black-as-night eyes were only matched by her coal-like skin. She and Rea had been working together for more years than Ozma had been alive, and there was a reason for it: They played off each other exquisitely. Where Rea was dainty and small and pale, Frigga was immense in stature, standing a head over Ozma, and she exuded such strength that he’d once made the mistake of asking if she might have Kingsblood as well.

He was still missing a tooth from how hard she’d struck him for it, and Ozma had never asked something so stupid again.

Frigga gave a disdainful sniff. “Stop treating the boy like your favorite pet. What happened then, boy? What did you do?” 

The watchmen were still squabbling with Annaliese, but Frigga didn’t seem inclined to help her daughter. Ozma wasn’t surprised. He swallowed his curiosity for now. “I went to do the errands you send me on, Auntie. I tried to use the alleys to avoid Artemis and his friends, but…” He shrugged helplessly. There were only so many ways to get back to the _Red Lady_ , and after twelve years, Artemis knew all of them just as well as Ozma. 

Frigga scoffed, but there was little malice in her tone. In fact, Ozma could detect a thread of warmth that he had come to cling to over his lifetime. It was the faintest reminder that Annaliese wasn’t wrong when she insisted that her mother did not _completely_ hate Ozma. “Come here, boy, while the idiots bicker.” She held out her hand for his face and he leaned into her palm, closing his eyes.

The magic hit his wounds like ice, and only years of experience with Frigga’s magic kept Ozma from pulling away. His magic surged under his skin, but he calmed it as best he could, until it settled into a waspish hum in his heart again. He felt wounds closing and his teeth settling back in his mouth rather than jostling loosely in their sockets.

As it tapered to an end, Ozma could sense alarming exhaustion resonating from Frigga, and his eyes jerked open and flashed over to Rea again with open concern. Immediately, he pulled away before all his bruises had been healed, and he reached up to grab Frigga’s hand with his own. Gentle but forceful, he locked eyes with her and smiled sadly. “Will you let me help?” He asked softly.

She studied him with quiet, profound intensity for several seconds. Her eyes twitched over to Rea, and Ozma saw her nod once. As was her way, Frigga did not relent all at once. She seemed to ease into acceptance instead, like a swimmer testing the water in a lake. “Don’t you fuck me up, boy.” She warned hoarsely.

As he had with Rea, Ozma opened a small, delicate channel between his magic and Frigga’s. Usually, it was as second-nature as breathing, but on the solstice it felt like he was fighting a wild horse into submission. His power wanted to escape his grasp and run rampant, but Ozma kept drawing it back and only letting it out in a controlled stream that flowed into Frigga, filling the hole in her magic and bonding to it. It probably felt strange, but within an hour it would bond fully to her natural magic and it would be impossible to detect.

Pulling his hand back, there was no loss of energy on Ozma’s part. He had replaced the drained magic of two adult, accomplished women, and he felt, if anything, slightly more in control of himself than he had ten minutes before. Not for the first time, he took a moment to marvel at his own magic.

“Get the fuck out of my _way_ ! I’m coming in whether you like it or _fucking_ not! Mother! Mother, tell them!” 

Annaliese, to Ozma’s surprise, actually looked somewhat frazzled. His eyes were drawn to the watchmen, and for the first time he really studied them, realizing abruptly that he wasn’t looking at city watchmen at all. His gaze lingered on the crests on their armor and their capes, then he turned to Rea with wide eyes. “ _Militia_?” He mouthed.

She nodded once, and her lips thinned. Beside them, Frigga snapped her fingers. “Let her in. She’s mine. She’ll hear of this anyway, so-- Horus! Finally, gods damn you!” In the doorway, the old man was heaving and red-faced. Ozma noted with some amusement that he’d taken the time to plaster his stupid, white hairpiece onto his head, but it was slightly askew, as was his silken suit. He looked at the hardened, armored men, then back at Rea.

Something was wrong.

“Close the door, Ermine.” The oldest man of the squad barked, and the door swung closed behind Horus while the gathered crowd murmured unhappily on the other side. Ozma moved closer to Rea again, hiding half behind her, suspecting that the only reason he was allowed to stay was simply because no one had deigned to notice him yet. When Annaliese sat between the two women, Ozma sighed in relief and used the three of them as a human shield, watching with quiet interest as the captain of the squad dragged his silver-white hair out of his eyes. Though he wasn’t as pale as Rea, Ozma noted at a glance that he seemed out of place in Viritus. Some sort of military transplant, he supposed. They weren’t unusual among the allied city-states and countries.

With a stern frown, the older man honed in on Rea from across the room. His eyes flicked to Ozma once, but as expected, he didn’t seem interested in him. “We need you to explain again, Rea. I’m sorry.”

Explain what? Ozma looked at Rea, noting the way her skin seemed clammy and near translucent, He snaked a hand onto the back of her shoulder, allowing a flower of his magic to blossom over her skin and warm her. She twisted her neck to stare at him, and after a moment she smiled softly before addressing the militia squad. “As I said already, I was traveling north with a small company of women and men. We received an escort request from the Northern Kingdom some time ago, but we delayed travel until the weather allowed for it. We left two weeks ago. The journey should have taken a month, but we ran into delays with our wagons, so the going was slow.” 

Rea’s voice didn’t match her face. Her tones were deep and slow like honey. She gave every word a tremendous amount of thought before she spoke - Ozma knew this was because she had suffered a terrible stutter in her childhood, and it was apt to return if she tried to rush herself along. She said nothing was worth saying if it wasn’t worth saying slowly, but she was rushing herself now. Not much, but Ozma noticed immediately.

“Just before dawn this morning, there… we were _visited_.” Her voice staggered a bit. “Not by men, but by a dragon.”

The reaction was immediate. The room seemed to go still as they all processed what that _meant_ . Immediately, Ozma found himself leaning forward with wide eyes. His hand wandered up to the cap of Rea’s shoulder and her fingers closed around his, squeezing gently. The captain of the militia was the first to recover, though he seemed paler than before. “You’re sure, Rea? A _dragon_ ? Not a wyvern or some creature from the Darklands? A _dragon_?” 

She nodded once, eyes closed. “I have never seen a creature so great, and I never wish to see one again. Its wings blocked the sun from the East and cast a shadow as far as my eyes could see. It was red, and it could… _oh_ , it seemed to… the _eyes_ .” She shook her head and her hand squeezed Ozma’s. “It’s coming here. I don’t know how we all knew, but it wasn’t even a question. We tried to _stop_ it, but…” Rea shrugged, and Ozma understood why she was alone.

No one simply _killed_ a dragon. It was impossible. Even an army couldn’t hope to kill one as large as she described.

“I had time to open a portal with- with some help from the others. They didn’t make it through.” Rea said at last, and she finally looked up with tears brimming in her eyes. “It will be here soon. By tonight? Maybe sooner?”

Ozma felt his shoulders sag in disbelief even as Rea continued to hold his hand in hers. With only hours to prepare, there was nothing _to_ do. No city had defenses against Great Dragons. They were old creatures who, in modern history, had rarely traveled far from their own territories. Old Red Dragon hadn’t been seen at all in living memory. Ozma had always wanted to see one of them, but not like this.

He took in the silence of the room. The shock was permeating every fiber of their beings, and even the militia squad seemed lost in their fear. Ozma’s hand tightened on Rea’s shoulder and he stood up. “Most buildings in the city have cellars. People can go to ground. Anyone with a talent for water and ice can flood them and, when it arrives, if we can keep the water cold enough…” It was a stupid plan, but he didn’t expect there would be a better option.

The captain looked up from his reverie and for a moment Ozma expected to be scolded for overstepping, but the man only nodded. “It’s the best we’ll be able to manage. Gods protect us.” He nodded briskly at the other men, and they filed for the door. The captain hesitated. “There is no point in keeping this secret. Tell who you can. If anyone can open portals, that might be another option, but… gods, there will be no saving them all. Save us all…” His eyes lingered on Ozma. “You’re a bright boy. What’s your name?”

He told him, and the captain raised his brows and barked a laugh. “You don’t say.” Ozma was caught off guard when the man crossed the room and gathered him into a sudden, rough embrace. As a rule, people didn’t _hug_ Ozma. Part and parcel of Kingsblood. “Well, my name is Matrin. I was the one who carried you over here when you weren’t any taller than my thigh. I knew Rea would do right by you, didn’t I? Eh?” He looked down at Rea, and through her despair, she smiled back at Matrin while Ozma gazed between them with mounting uncertainty, shoulders hunched and hands curled against his chest.

“I’m glad to have met you again, Ozma. I’m sorry it was like this. You’re a bright boy. I knew you wouldn’t let it slow you down.” Matrin slapped his shoulder firmly. Without another word, he left the room. Just as silently, Annaliese and Frigga stood and left, though Anna looked over her shoulder at the last moment with rare fear coloring her expression.

In the silence of the room, Ozma slowly sank back onto his knees and came closer to Rea. Without a word, he pressed against her and breathed in the familiar scent of roses and summer sweat. He folded his arms across his body tightly as he turned his head to slot against the side of her neck, and her arms came up around him in a tight embrace. After a moment’s pause, Ozma realized that Rea was shaking with silent sobs, and he was stricken with a childish kind of terror. “Mother Rea, don’t _cry_. You don’t have to cry.” He whispered urgently, but that only seemed to make her cry harder, and Ozma floundered in her painfully tight grip until he adjusted his weight and pulled his arms free, hugging her back as tightly as he dared.

“I’m sorry.” He said softly.

She pulled away then, sniffing delicately and wiping her face with one hand. She wiped his with her other. “Don’t be sorry, dear boy. Don’t be sorry.” She sighed softly. “I’ve told you a hundred times. We are not sorry for who we are - no matter what the world says.” She pulled him into another embrace and Ozma went willingly, curling into her warmth as tears pricked at his own eyes now. “Kingsblood or not, you’re mine. If you’re sorry for that, I’ll smack you.” She teased against his cheek, and Ozma gave a watery laugh. He didn’t argue when Rea laid down and all but dragged him along with her. He laid against her side, cushioned by pillows and blankets, and as the afternoon progressed and he listened to the sound of sirens and panic outside the window and in the hall, his mind drifted to the past as his mind was flooded with the familiar scent of rose perfume.

There were things that you knew from such an early age that they became little more than _fact_. The world was round. The moon was white. Winter was cold. Summer was hot. Magic. Pain. Love. Hate.

These were unquestionable facts of life. They were not things that one could think back on and recall a precise _moment_ that cemented them as such. They simply _were_.

Kingsblood was one such fact of Ozma’s life.

It was a word intrinsically tied to his mother, who he did not remember very well at all. She had, after all, left him before he’d had a reason to commit her to memory. She had seemed tall (she was, in fact, quite a short woman). She had seemed strong (she was, in fact, skin graciously stretched over a smattering of slender bone). She had seemed immortal (she was, in fact, _not_ ).

Ozma liked to say that his mother had left him. It sounded better than saying she was _dead_ . When one’s mother was dead, one often had to suffer the question of _why_ . _Why_ was his mother dead? _Why_ did she abandon him at a convent and inconveniently expire within an hour? _Why_ did the convent, in turn, pass him round and round like an unwanted sock until he found himself sitting on the floor of the _Red Lady_?

It all came back to Kingsblood, which was a fact of Ozma’s life. Kingsblood was the answer to every _why_ that might have plagued him, if he opened the door to such questions. _Why?_ Well, because Kingsblood. 

Kingsblood, in turn, opened its own doors, but not to questions.

That, at least, _could_ be put to a precise moment in time. The convents (all six of them) had been good at keeping such things away from his prying ears. He didn’t remember hearing murmured, angry conversations through thin doors at the convents, but he had heard those conversations at the _Red Lady_. 

“We won’t. _Can’t_. Don’t be a fool.” A man. He had the kind of voice that didn’t lend itself well to low tones. Ozma would eventually know him as Horus, but that came later.

“We could find a place for him. He’s at a good age. He could be trained up.” A woman. Her voice might have been hard to pick up, had Ozma not already been listening closely. She was Rea. He would come to love her, but for now she was just a voice.

“For _what_? He’s not going near a client. You know what they’re like. One fool does something he doesn’t like or surprises him, and…” 

“Security. If there’s anything he might do well for, it’s that. Come now, Horus, see some sense.”

“Security, or a liability? I’m telling you, I’ve seen what Kingsblood can do. He’ll lose his temper eventually, or-- Brothers, Rea, are we even having this conversation?”

“You want to send a child onto the street to fend for himself. Yes, we’re having this conversation.”

“I want to keep you safe. I want to keep _all_ of us safe. _He_ is not _safe_.”

“ _He_ is five years old, and he has nowhere else to go. The streets are even less a place for someone like him.”

“So you’d sooner have him blow _us_ up than strangers…”

“He won’t. He’s a clever little boy. The sisters told me that much. He’s not unstable. Perhaps he’s a gift to us. You know the Brothers can work in odd ways.”

“Rea--”

“And if he _is_ a gift and you shun him, what will the Brothers think of us? Brother Light is the only one who has love for whores and cripples, Horus.” 

“So help me, when he blows us all to pieces, you had best fucking apologize to me in the After.”

This perfect, beautiful woman who had defended him so fiercely introduced herself to Ozma as Mother Rea. She had been the only one willing to hold him when he was hurt, with no fear of what might happen. She had been the only one willing to teach him just enough about his own magic to help him contain it and control it. She had been the only one willing to sit with him through every solstice for years, rocking him in her lap as he screamed and cried. Rea had always caught his hands before he could hurt himself, clawing at his own body in an instinctive bid to relieve the pressure building under his skin.

She had defended him against Frigga and against any number of others. She had protected him from Horus, when the idea had entered his head when Ozma was thirteen to use him as little more than a magical freak show. Rea had turned clients away when they showed interest in him when Ozma was too young to be canny enough to reject them himself, and she’d been the one to guide him when Ozma had decided _not_ to reject a special few.

It had been Rea who had sat with him and Annaliese during their eighth summer, and had told them the story of Kingsblood:

“Once upon a very long time ago, there was a proud and fierce king. This king had terrifying, powerful magic, and he used it to keep peace in his lands. He was well-loved, and well-feared, and when his son was born, the warrior king expected him to boast the same terrifying, powerful magic… but the son was soft-hearted and gentle. He did not have a talent for magic, nor did he have any interest in violence and war. The king’s son loved sunshine, and stargazing. He loved stories of great knights, but he did not wish to become one.

“The king could not allow this, and so he went before the very gods themselves. He begged them to gift his son with stupendous power such as his own, but the gods declined. Brother Light told the king to be gladful for what his son _did_ have, but the king was full of pride and arrogance. He _demanded_ that the gods gift his son. He rebelled against the injustice of a great warrior such as himself being cursed with a child who loved sunshine and stargazing. He threatened the gods, in his madness, to gift to his son such magic the world had never known.

“The gods, of course, did not _have_ to do anything… but they chose to acquiesce to the arrogant king’s demand. The prince was blessed with magic beyond all imagination. He could move the heavens and earth with a thought. He could grow trees with a wave of his hand, and raze a country with a glance. The warrior king was delighted, but the prince could not control this great power of his. He could not stop magic from escaping his body. He burned cities to the ground, and he destroyed every castle the warrior king ever built. He could not even control his own mind, and when the king finally locked his only son away, his son no longer loved sunshine and stargazing, nor did he recognize his wife or his own frightfully powerful children. He was little more than a husk. A shell. And a shell he remained, until his magic ate him alive and the warrior king buried his heir on his six-and-twentieth year.”

Mother Rea had patiently held Ozma and Annaliese for an entire afternoon as they sobbed through the realization of what his life was destined to become. She had never allowed him to hinder himself. Not then and not now.

Ozma pushed himself upright slowly, gazing at Rea for a long moment as she fitfully slept. The chaos outside raged on, and he shifted his weight onto his hip, then rolled onto his feet. Before he stood upright, he pressed a kiss against the side of his face and pulled a soft, mink blanket up around her. Then, without a backwards glance, Ozma left the room and entered the hall.

There was movement everywhere as valuables were collected and moved down the stairs in boxes. Voices were low and anxious, and no one paid much mind to him as he pushed by. Ozma had no valuables. He was lucky when he had a pair of shoes that fit properly.

He ran down the stairs, trying to keep his feet while simultaneously dodging those on their way up. On the second landing, Ozma was caught off guard by a flash of yellow-gold, followed by a disconcerting, heated kiss being pressed against his mouth. Staggering back into the wall, his fingers automatically curled around the cloth at Acis’ waist even as Ozma craned his head back, away from the unexpected kiss. Feeling Acis’ hands drifting lower on his back, Ozma wriggled away as quickly as he could. “Don’t be a spoilsport. It’s our last day, eh?” Acis grinned impishly, and any other time Ozma would have wavered in a heartbeat. He loved Acis’ blond curls and blue eyes, let alone the impossible strength he had in his wiry limbs. Without thinking, Oz did run his hand through those curls, admiring the way the light reflected on them. “Come on. It won’t take long.”

That, of course, was a lie. Ozma had fallen for it before, and he’d gotten all manner of hell because of Acis’s pouty insistence on it _not taking long_ . The man was many things, including methodical and _remarkably_ detail oriented, but _nothing_ was ever hasty in his bed, so Ozma extricated himself from Acis’ arms with an apologetic smile. “I can’t. I really, really can’t right now, Ace. I’m sorry. Later.” He pressed a hot kiss against his mouth and lingered for a moment, then pulled away and started sprinting down the stairs while Acis leaned over the balcony above him.

“We’re all gonna be _dead_ later, Oz!”

He hit the first floor and slid to a halt in front of the door. Reaching for it, Ozma groaned when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Expecting Acis again, he turned his head with a scolding remark on his lips, only to be caught off guard by Annaliese, looking ashen and perturbed, but determined. “Where are _you_ going? And when the _fuck_ have you ever turned down a chance with Acis? You spend half your time sitting in front of his door hoping he might ask you to suck his--”

“I’m _busy_ , Anna. There’s something I need to do, and I don’t know how much time I have. Please let me go.”

“No.”

“ _Please._ ”

“Fucking _no_ , Ozma. The world’s about to end and you’re supposed to be here with your fucking _family_ , not running off looking for fucking trouble!”

“You’re not my _family_ , Annaliese!” Oz ripped his arm away from her and took a step back, feeling a rush of needling, itching _anger_ under his skin that kept him from immediately feeling monstrous for his outburst.

Then, to his horror, her eyes filled with tears. Worse still, they spilled over in a silent cascade. “Yes, you _are_ !” Despite her eyes, her voice didn’t waver. “I’m not saying anyone treats you as well as… as you probably deserve. That’s just fucking Kingsblood, isn’t it? Everyone’s so scared you’ll go off the fucking handle and kill us all or something. But not… you know, I wanted to hate you for _years_ , because Mama wanted me to be more like _you_ .” Her eyes flashed and she waved a hand before Ozma could speak. “She did! She fucking _did_ ! She wanted me to… Gods, what did she used to say…? She wanted me to _sit and observe_ like you. She wanted me to fucking _think_ and _consider my options_ like you. She always hated me for speaking my mind. She said I was going to die before _you_ at the rate I was talking back.”

Her hand curled on his forearm, and Ozma flinched with shame. “We’re your family, like us or not. Wherever you’re going, I’m coming with you.” 

Facing her directly, Ozma breathed in slowly and allowed his eyes to shut for a moment. When they opened, his gaze was fixed and determined. “If you do, stay out of my way, Annaliese. No matter what I do. You stay out of the way.” He twisted his arm in her hand and grabbed her wrist in response. “I’m going to do just about _everything_ I’ve been told not to. If you have a problem with that… stay here.”

He released her and turned away, pushing open the door. He expected Annaliese to stay in the _Red Lady_ where she belonged, but without turning his head Ozma could feel her follow him into the street. He raised his head and scanned the horizon of buildings, sussing out north before all else. Turning on his heel, Ozma began to jog down the crowded streets, ignoring Annaliese’s annoyed noises behind him. They weren’t far from the northernmost corner of the city. 

Without looking back, Ozma pushed off the ground and allowed a tendril of his magic to creep around his legs, warm and comforting and intense. He took flight immediately, soaring up and onto the nearest rooftop. Breathing harshly, he flexed his fingers and turned with wild eyes to watch Annaliese as she mimicked his leap. Ozma noted with interest that her movements were slower and clumsier than his. Like it had been a struggle just to get that high. Turning back to the north, he began to sprint, bounding from one roof to the next until he came to the top of the Northern Convent, which pressed against the far wall of Viritus. Breathing heavily, Ozma gazed out across the horizon, still and serene as a dry, desert breeze washed over him from beyond the city.

Odd. There had been no wind at all just a few hours before.

“He’s coming.” Ozma didn’t address Annaliese. His eyes remained fixed on the sky. “Did you know I’ve always wanted to see a real dragon in person?” He finally looked at her, and his eyes were bright with magic and excitement. The angry buzzing tension beneath his skin had transformed into the silent song Ozma had always associated with his magic, and although tendrils of green energy arced between his fingertips, he had no more fear of it than he did of the Old Red Dragon. 

Let it come.

 _Let it come_.

“Brothers, you’re _mad_ .” Annaliese choked, but a moment later she began to laugh softly, hands clasped over her mouth as her mirth built up slowly but surely. “Ozma… everyone else is hiding in their _cellars_ , and you’re sitting on a _fucking_ roof acting excited to _meet_ the fucking thing.”

In the far distance, little more than a shadow against the blue sky, Ozma saw the first sign of _something_ , and he raised his hand to Annaliese’s lips, pressing a finger against them. With his other hand, he pointed out across the Northern Wastes, where the shadow grew, and grew, and grew. He looked aside at Annaliese, and saw that her lips had curled back from her teeth in a silent display of terror. Ozma turned his attention back towards the approaching shadow, feeling anxiety and magic curling in the pit of his stomach like a nest of snakes.

Energy crackled between his fingertips. The streets were clearing rapidly now, aside from the militia’s roving squads who were hurrying stragglers along. They had no intention of fighting the Old Red Dragon. There _was_ no fighting it.

At least, not until now. And maybe Ozma was as mad as Annaliese said. He didn’t know. All that he knew was the lack of fear in his heart as he faced the living storm that was thundering towards the city. He felt _alive_ and _excited_. His lips had spread in a broad, easy smile that was as sane as it had ever been, and when Ozma turned to face Annaliese, he reached out and caught her hand in his, holding it gently. “Don’t be afraid.” He said simply.

Their eyes locked, and she began to cry. Ozma thought, this time, it might be in relief.

The Old Red Dragon was, as its name suggested, old and red. What its name failed to impress was the sheer _scale_ of the beast. As it closed in on the city-state, it was difficult for the eye to track its movements, because it was so abysmally _huge_. Its wings spanned the sky from one tip of the horizon to the other. Its body was so thick that it could crush a sixth of the city just by landing on it. Each of its broad, strong, clawed paws could have scratched an entire building out of existence.

Its eyes were like liquid, trapped ice. Even from miles away, Ozma knew he had never seen anything so pure, frigid blue. He knew that the Old Red Dragon was staring at him just as intensely as he stared at it.

 _Magic begets magic,_ he reminded himself silently. Perhaps it could sense Ozma as clearly as Ozma could sense it.

The dragon was still a league away if it was a mile when Oz sensed a shift in its magic. He held a hand out to Annaliese, feeling a gentle twitch of concern. “I think you should go, Anna. Right now.” Ozma urged softly. Her eyes locked with his, and although he could see her hands and her knees trembling violently, she shook her head once and merely collapsed onto the roof behind him. 

Ozma turned back to the dragon. What Annaliese chose to do at this point was her own decision. He was more concerned about the grinding roar that churned out of the beast’s throat as its maw slowly opened wider and wider. Red and yellow flames licked the air and shot forth towards Viritus, and for a split second, Ozma panicked. His hand shook, and his eyes widened as he gazed at the firestorm coming for them all. It was a wave of heat that would sweep over a quarter of the city in a single breath, and no amount of water or ice was going to stop it.

And yet, here he was. Alone and small. Thinking he could be more than he was. Praying he _was_ more than just the sum of his parts.

His hands shook, but power coursed through them. Ozma breathed in, then out, and his eyes blazed with green fire of his own. Spreading his hands high, he projected his wishes into his magic. _Protect. Protect! PROTECT!_ Over and over and over as a blanket of shimmering green power erupted forth and spread in a great arc across the city for a league in each direction. Behind him, Annaliese gave a shrill cry of shock and glee. 

“Where did you learn high magic?! Ozma, this is--”

“Shut up! Just shut up for a _moment_!” He choked as the first wave of fire hit the barrier, and Ozma staggered backwards from the strength of it. His knees buckled for a moment, until his magic roared back at the dragon in a way Oz had never dreamt of. He surged upright again, and he threw his weight forward. The fire followed his push, and twisted back onto the Old Red Dragon. It gave a scream that made Ozma scream in response, pressing his hands against his ears.

When he looked up again, He felt a strange, otherworldly _swoop_ in his gut, as he found himself staring, eyes-to-eye, with the mighty old beast on the other side of his barrier. One of its enormous, electric-white-blue eyes was taller than Ozma, yet it boasted a kind of amused intelligence that reminded him nonsensically of the old men who played games in the parks. They were wily and sharp, but not bad. Just cantankerous, if nothing else.

The Old Red Dragon’s scales were less perfect up close. Ozma could see thousands of scars criss crossing its body. Some seemed minor, and others made him wonder how it could still be alive at all. There was a terrible indentation on its breastbone that broke Ozma’s heart to look upon. He didn’t want it to destroy his home, but likewise, he would never have wished ill upon it.

He only wanted it to leave them _alone_.

The great dragon uttered a low, rumbling growl and took to the air. A moment later, it had landed on the barrier Ozma had erected around the city, and again his knees threatened to buckle under the force of it as the old beast gazed down intently. Yet still, even as sweat began to form pinpricks on his skin, Ozma couldn’t shake the feeling of _amusement_ that rolled off the dragon and shone out in its eyes.

_you’re a tough little one._

The voice was grinding stone and mudslides and earthquakes, and it reverberated in Ozma’s skull so clearly that his eyes rolled backwards under the mental strain of having it - whatever _it_ was - in his head. He sank onto his knees, still holding the barrier. Annaliese was saying something, but his entire being felt consumed by the rockslide voice of the dragon.

_you know, we dragons can see the future in parts. yours is a strange one. we’ve all been interested in you, yes we have. very interested in oz are we all. you have a funny story to live and tell, little one. you will outlive this era of dragons and you’ll birth a new one. you will love a dragon. it will burn you and everything you love but you will love it regardless. you are only human after all. yes we are very interested in you, little oz._

Tears poured down his face under the pressure of the snarling voice. It was almost impossible to understand. It felt like Ozma was hearing the voice of the greatest forest or the tallest mountain. It was the voice of nature - more powerful even than the Gods. Just as old as either of them, and just as immense. He was a fool to think he could stop the Old Red Dragon, he realized. If it felt like it, Ozma was sure it could tear his barrier apart like gossamer.

_Please. Oh, please. Please stop. Please go away. Please. Please._

_this one will go little oz, but your dragon will not go so easily. you watch out for that dragon. you would do better not to be involved with such creatures, little oz. you have such a long time left to live. we wish we would be alive for it. we would have great talks with you as you are not now but as you will become. we wish we could meet him, but it is you we have met._

_Please just go. Please just go. Please. Please. Oh, please, you’re hurting me. You’re hurting me. I’m going to die if you don’t stop._

_you won’t die from something so small, little oz. but if left is what you wish to be, so mote it be. this one has tested you and found you worthy enough. be brave. be strong. be true to yourself and to others. you will love and you will lose and you will survive it all. farewell, little oz._

Sagging forward, Ozma’s body convulsed violently as the dragon launched itself into the air, turning with an impossible sort of grace and slowly, with buffeting winds in every direction, set off towards the North again. The barrier broke apart like so many shards of glass, and the last he was conscious of, Annaliese was screaming over his head for help.

When Ozma next awoke, it was to pandemonium. He could smell roses, and the bed beneath him was soft. He knew he was in Rea’s chambers immediately, but he didn’t move. Instead, he listened to the madness unfolding around him. Nearby, Annaliese was all but screaming “ _He saved your ungrateful fucking lives!_ ” Over and over. On his other side, Ozma was surprised to hear Frigga roaring much the same thing. Above him, He could hear Rea’s softer tone, but he didn’t know what she was saying. He could feel the cool cloth in her hand as it wiped across his face in smooth strokes. His breath escaped him in a sigh. Distantly, he heard Horus bickering outside the room. He even thought he could pick out Acis in the bustle.

“I don’t make the law, I only enforce it, and the law is clear regarding Kingsblood wielding their magic freely.” Ozma’s eyes fluttered open at last, and he recognized Matrin immediately. The man looked flustered and out of sorts, and he noticed before anyone else when Ozma regained consciousness. For a man who sounded like he was here to perform an execution, he seemed relieved when Ozma pushed himself sluggishly off Rea’s lap, only to be knocked askew with a squawk when Annaliese bombarded him from the side, clutching at him like a hungry monkey, checking him all over and babbling all the while. “You’re alive. You’re alive. Thank the gods, oh, thank the gods. I thought you were dead. You started shaking, and… and you wouldn’t _look_ at me. And there was a dirty, great fucking _dragon_ sitting over us looking at you like it was… and then… Oz, don’t you _ever_ fucking do this again. Don’t you _fucking ever_!”

He squawked again when she hauled back and slapped him hard, on the shoulder, and then he leaned back on Rea and turned tired eyes to Matrin above the din of Annaliese still yowling. “So… you’re here to arrest me? Kill me? Which?”

The room went quiet suddenly, and the older man looked so tired that Ozma felt a stab of pity for him. “Ozma, I don’t like this situation any more than your... “

“Family.” Annaliese snarled.

Matrin dipped his head. “But the law is unwavering. Specifically, Our Lord is unwavering.”

“So, death,” Ozma guessed. He was too exhausted to be upset. He was simply resigned to his fate.

The captain hesitated, seeming to waver as he looked between the rest of his squad. “There _is_ an alternative. Not an official one, but… well… one of your power… you could easily escape. Our Lord only has power within Viritus. The Northern Kingdom has shown interest in you, after what transpired.” Matrin looked down at his hands and picked at his thumbnail absently. “But, if you wish to remain in the city… then, yes. Death.” 

Only days before, Ozma might have felt impossible terror at the notion. Now, he was quiet as he laid against Rea. He looked up at her face. Her eyes were still the prettiest he’d ever seen. “You told me there was… the rain freezes in the air in the Northern Kingdom. Is that true?”

She smiled, though her lips trembled violently. “It is.”

“Well, I suppose I’ve really got to see that for myself.” He pushed himself upright in one smooth movement. If he hesitated, Ozma knew he wouldn’t leave. He tried not to think about what it meant to go, and he tried not to look at any of them as he crossed to the door. “No. _No_ . Don’t.” He caught Annaliese by the shoulders and steered her back towards Frigga. “If you make it seem like it’s not just… _temporary_ , I’m not going to go.” He explained in a choked tone. 

He left without looking back, and he didn’t know if he would ever see them again. He doubted he would.

Taking the stairs at a jog, Ozma hit the landing when, for the second time in a matter of days, he found himself accosted by a curious mouth. Backed into the corner of the stairwell, he hissed against Acis’ mouth and pushed him away stubbornly. On cue, the fool said the same thing he _always_ said. “Come on, it won’t take long.” Absently, Ozma stopped knocking away Acis’ wandering hands and mouth and his lips curled into a thin, thoughful smile.

What better way to let go of his warring emotions? And, Ozma’s grin grew, he could scare the piss out Acis if he rolled out of bed and straight through a portal to the Northern Kingdom. It was a win-win, and as he allowed himself to be led into the nearest room, Ozma took one last moment to admire the strange world he had been raised in. He doubted he would ever see it again. 

But of all the things to trade it for, to trade it for adventure felt like a dream come true, and so he turned his attention back onto Acis with a merry laugh, allowing the door to swing shut behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> pls be gentle
> 
> this may or may not evolve into something multi-chapter, but don't count on regular or quick updates
> 
> but if it becomes multi-chapter u no ur spicy blond girl will make an appearance and shit will get wild


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